The morning after...

There's a fantastic food market that takes place every Sunday in my neighborhood. Imagine if you will, rhino75 wandering leisurely between the different stalls (accessorized with rather smart shopping bag on wheels), pausing only to sniff an oozing camembert - or maybe squeeze a plum for ripeness. All this while engaging in a spot of light banter with the stall-holders who not only value his custom but respect him as a man who, quite literally, knows his onions, before sauntering back to Rhino75 Towers with a spring in his step and a baguette under his arm. Because that's exactly the scene I imagined when I first moved here. Unfortunately, I discovered a major glitch - the market is only on Sunday mornings. And Sunday mornings for rhino75 are rather like the great crested grebe - that is, I know that they exist and that other people have seen them but I've rarely witnessed one myself. Since 1998, I've actually made it to that market five times, normally when I have visitors staying. But today, I was there. Admittedly, I wasn't actually shopping, but rather making my way to a very long, boozy and thoroughly enjoyable lunch with Lady J and her betrothed, but it still counts. I was almost tempted to mark the occasion by purchasing a small packet of dried figs (rhino's secret vice).